


I'll find my way back to you

by elizaham8957



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I still hate him in case you can't tell, aka 'once a week you drag me out of bed like I'm some sort of supernatural metal detector', also this does not exactly paint Jackson in a good light, i guess?, i take it back the ending is so sappy this is definitely gratuitous fluff, post 5b but pre 6a
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 14:56:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12192108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: Blearily, Lydia opened one eye, just able to make out his silhouette against the window by her bed. His expression was oh-so-innocent, but she knew exactly what his motives were here.“I have had no supernatural premonitions,” she informed him, turning in her bed to face away from him. This didn’t seem to perturb Stiles at all; instead, he perched himself on the foot of her bed, right next to her feet.“I know, but I just feel like tonight something is off,” he told her, and his voice was way too energetic for… Lydia peered at her clock, opening one eye. Two thirty in the morning.“Stiles,” she sighed again, her annoyance evident from her tone of voice. “Please let me sleep.”“But Lydia,” he insisted. “What if there’s a supernatural creature out there lurking, and we find it before everything goes to shit? Before it can wreak havoc on Beacon Hills!”She just groaned again. “This is not why I gave you a key to my house.”“Why else would you give me a key to your house?”“If you don't stop we’re changing the locks."





	I'll find my way back to you

**Author's Note:**

> So, you might remember a couple weeks ago I wrote [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12027339) and I wrote out basically another prompt in the tags? Well, I've been feeling super emotional about Teen Wolf today, understandably, so I wrote this. You *probably* don't have to have read the first one for this to make sense, but it certainly wouldn't hurt. 
> 
> This takes place between 5b and 6a, just for context. Enjoy!

Lydia couldn’t remember where she had gotten the sweatshirt.

It wasn’t anything fancy— a simple hoodie in a faded maroon color; no lettering, no brand. It was lined with warm grey fabric, still soft after god knows how many years she’d had it, and god knows how many nights she’d spent curled up in it. It had just _appeared_ at some point in her life, right around sophomore year— that was the first time she solidly remembered having it. She’d woken up one morning, horribly hung over from one of Danny’s parties, and had been wearing it. She had always figured she’d grabbed it from a drawer or something, though she still didn’t know where it had come from prior to that. It wasn’t Jackson’s style at all; he’d never be caught dead in an article of clothing so casual, let alone a generic, brandless piece. But the sweatshirt was warm, and it smelled nice, so she’d hung on to it, never questioning it. She’d slept well wrapped in the soft fabric, so her barely-sixteen year old self had hung it on the rack in her closet and then promptly forgotten about it.

It wasn’t until a month later, after a horrific fight with Jackson, that she had rediscovered it. She’d come home after a lacrosse game where he had _screamed_ at her in front of the entire team for doing _nothing,_ a sobbing mess. Ignoring the half-concerned inquiries of her already-bickering parents, she’d stormed upstairs, flopping dramatically on her bed and sobbing, letting Jackson’s cruel words to her play on loop in her head.

When she’d finally regained her composure enough to wash the mascara tracks off her face and change into her pajamas, she’d seen it. The sliver of maroon fabric hanging on the back of her closet door, covered by fashionable jackets and scarves, barely peeking out. Somewhat instinctively, she’d pulled it down, holding the soft, faded fabric in her hands. Whatever life it had had before it came to her must have been a good one, because it was clearly worn; not in a way where it was falling apart, but it was clear in the way the sleeves were a little stretched, the front a little baggy, that its previous owner had loved it and worn it well. Lydia had held the sweatshirt up to her face, the soft fabric brushing her cheek, and that same smell was there— she couldn’t quite describe it, but it was vaguely familiar, comforting and warm. Hesitantly, she had slipped the sweatshirt on over her pajama top, and immediately felt more at ease, swallowed whole by the article of clothing.

She had worn the sweatshirt to bed that night, and whatever words Jackson had taunted her with were soon forgotten.

It had become a routine, after that— any time she felt particularly crappy, worn down, exhausted, and defeated, she would grab the sweatshirt from her closet and wrap herself in the soft fabric of the garment. It was her go-to comfort clothing, and although it lost its scent through many washings, it still somehow seemed to immediately calm her down.

It got her through her breakup with Jackson, the terrifying night after being locked in the school with a mass murderer, Jackson leaving for London, the revelation that the supernatural was real, and more discoveries of dead bodies than she _ever_ thought she’d make. It was there for the death of her best friend, the familiar material soft on her skin as she had laid in bed sobbing for a week, a jagged hole in her chest from the piece of her heart that Allison had taken with her.

It was there to see almost everything in her life change— her friends, her image, her powers— but it always stayed the same, soft and familiar, its original scent clinging to it ever so faintly.

When she had stumbled upon an entire box of photos of her and Allison that she forgot even existed, taken back at the end of sophomore year, before Allison had left for France for the summer, Lydia’s first reaction had been to go get her sweatshirt. She’d flipped through the rest of the photos, the too-big sleeves pushed up to her wrists, and when she’d finally gone to bed, she’d kept the sweatshirt on.

Unfortunately, sleep wasn’t coming easily to her, and it wasn’t because she was being haunted by supernatural nightmares, for once.

She _had_ been sleeping well, for the record. She’d been sleeping _perfectly_ until her bedroom door had creaked open, followed by deliberate footsteps that were trying too hard to be quiet.

Under normal circumstances, Lydia would have been extremely alarmed, but by this point all she did was turn over in bed, pressing her face into her pillow and determinedly ignoring the boy creeping towards her.

“Stiles,” she groaned when his footsteps continued drawing near, unsurprised at all by his appearance. He’d been doing this for weeks now. The first time he snuck in she had  jumped ten feet in the air, but that was partially because he had knocked on her window that time. After she was woken up three times that way, she decided giving him access to the front door so he could come wake her up in case of emergency like a _normal_ person would probably be worth it.

Blearily, Lydia opened one eye, just able to make out his silhouette against the window by her bed. His expression was oh-so-innocent, but she knew exactly what his motives were here.

“I have had _no_ supernatural premonitions,” she informed him, turning in her bed to face away from him. This didn’t seem to perturb Stiles at all; instead, he perched himself on the foot of her bed, right next to her feet.

“I know, but I just feel like tonight something is off,” he told her, and his voice was _way_ too energetic for… Lydia peered at her clock, opening one eye. Two thirty in the morning.

“Stiles,” she sighed again, her annoyance evident from her tone of voice. “Please let me sleep.”

“But _Lydia,”_ he insisted. “What if there’s a supernatural creature out there lurking, and we find it before everything goes to shit? Before it can wreak havoc on Beacon Hills!”

She just groaned again. “This is not why I gave you a key to my house.”

“Why else would you give me a key to your house?”

“If you don't stop we’re changing the locks,” she said seriously, but they both knew it was an empty threat.

“Don’t you _ever_ sleep?” Lydia inquired, both eyes open now. Stiles still sat at the end of her bed, wearing one of the literally eight million flannels he owned. Lydia swore she had never met someone who loved plaid so much.

“Since I was possessed by a Japanese fox demon and couldn’t tell my dreams from reality? No, not really.”

Lydia winced. “Sorry,” she said, not meaning to bring up the nogitsune, but Stiles just shook his head slightly, waving her off. Sighing, she sat up in bed, reaching over to her bedside table and flicking on her lamp. The room was immediately bathed in a soft, warm pink light, casting shadows that stretched across the entire carpet.

“Okay,” Lydia said, begrudgingly pushing back the covers. “What do you think is out there now?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Stiles confessed as she swung her legs over the side of her bed, brushing her hair out of her face with her fingers. “I think it might be something like— that’s my sweatshirt.”

It took Lydia a moment to realize what he had said, as her brain was still running to catch up, a little cloudy still with sleep. Finally, his words registered, and she turned to look at him, the confusion on her face not at all matching the unreadable expression on his.

“No it’s not,” Lydia said, peering at him curiously. “I’ve had this for years.”

“I know,” Stiles said, looking a little shell shocked. “I gave it to you years ago. I can’t believe you still _have_ it.”

“I… what are you _talking_ about?” Lydia demanded, because while she wasn’t exactly sure where the sweatshirt had come from, she knew that 16-year-old, queen bee Lydia would have _never_ accepted a sweatshirt from Stiles Stilinski, even though it probably would have made him keel over with joy. Funny how that worked— back then, he had been hopelessly in love with her and she had barely even known he _existed_ , and now he was one of her best friends, sitting on the end of her bed and begging her to go monster hunting with him.

Not to mention the fact that she was falling more in love with him every day, but. That was a separate story.

“You don’t remember,” Stiles said, shifting on the end of her bed, suddenly looking nervous. “Uh, there was a party, at Danny’s. You had a huge fight with Jackson, and you got really drunk. I went looking for you to make sure you were okay—” Lydia’s breath caught, because, god, even when she had been oblivious to his _existence,_ Stiles Stilinski had been looking out for her. Sometimes she was overwhelmed by how willing he was to go find her, to put himself in danger time and time again just to make sure she was alright. And the way he said it, so casually— like running to save her was something he had always been doing intrinsically. Something he just did without thinking of it.

“I found you outside, and it was November,” he told her. “Uh, we talked a little, I think.” She could tell from his expression that he still knew _exactly_ what they talked about, and he was currently sparing her the details.

“But I gave you that sweatshirt, because you were freezing,” he continued. “And I drove you home, because you couldn’t find Jackson. I made Scott find a ride with someone else on the team,” he added, a slight laugh escaping his mouth, the ghost of an easier time, when their biggest concern was getting home safely from a party, not risking their lives battling demonic monsters who popped up out of nowhere.

“But I told you to keep the sweatshirt,” he finished, glancing back at her, meeting her eyes again. “I never imagined you really _would.”_

“I never knew where I got it from,” Lydia admitted, playing with one of the cuffs. “That must have been that party. I woke up wearing it, and it was soft, and it smelled nice, so I kept it.” Her cheeks turned red at her words, because the sweatshirt lost its smell long ago, but she now, of course, realized that she knew the scent it used to hold. It was completely and utterly _Stiles—_ the same scent she could smell when they were huddled together on a locker room floor with their foreheads still pressed together, the same smell that had enveloped her when Stiles pulled her into his arms in the halls of Eichen house, avoiding the Dread Doctors. The same scent from when she had flung herself into his arms and he’d held her close, her nose buried in his chest as she cried, moments after Aiden died before them.

Looking up, Lydia could see that Stiles’s cheeks were bright red too, but his eyes— his eyes shone as he looked at her, expression soft and reverent. Despite the scarlet tint to his cheeks, his lips were quirked in an adorably small grin, and he just looked— so content, staring at her. It made her blush even more, and she had to look down, breaking eye contact with him. Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly, looking away as well.

“You can have it back,” she said as an afterthought, voice quiet as she reached for the zipper. Stiles shook his head vehemently, throwing up a hand to tell her to stop.

“No, no, you keep it,” he insisted, meeting her eyes again, the look in them still so soft. She could see little flecks of gold in his irises, the shadows from his lashes slanting over his cheekbones, and she couldn’t help her heart from stuttering. “Seriously. I’m glad it’s been of use, or… brought you comfort, or… jesus, what am I saying?” He shook his head slightly, as if he were trying to ebb the flow of words spilling out of his mouth. Lydia smiled, small and hesitant, at his awkward babbling.

“Stiles?” she said, voice soft. He immediately looked up, eyes snapping to hers. “Can we maybe _not_ go monster hunting tonight?”

His expression shifted, the tension from before dissipating, as he pulled a face. She rolled her eyes at him, swinging her legs back up onto her bed.

“Let’s just… let’s just sleep, okay?” Lydia offered. “I think you could use some rest.”

Stiles’s eyebrows raised at that. “You mean… me, sleep _here?”_ he asked, tone a little incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation, pulling down the blankets on the other half of the bed. “My bed’s big enough, and you’re already here. Get some sleep.”

Stiles just sat still for a moment, before finally standing, toeing off his shoes and hesitantly climbing into her bed. Lydia laid back down, reaching over to turn off the lamp, until the only source of light was the pale moonlight flooding in her window. She turned back on her side, facing Stiles, and her heart sped up a little bit, seeing how close their faces were, noses almost brushing.

“You know,” she said quietly, contemplatively, “you don’t always have to be on the lookout for the next supernatural disaster. You can take some time off in between.”

“I know,” Stiles responded, his voice low. “I just want to protect everyone. Keep them safe from whatever’s coming. Do what I can to take care of them.”

“Mmm,” Lydia hummed in understanding. Despite his callous, sarcastic exterior, Stiles cared more about his friends than Lydia ever thought could be possible. It didn’t surprise her at all that Stiles would sacrifice his well-being if it meant keeping his friends safe. “You’ve got to take care of yourself, though, too,” she told him, eyes locked on his. “You can’t look out for everyone but yourself.”

Stiles shrugged, his expression growing softer. “I don’t know. You do a pretty good job looking out for me.”

Lydia could feel a blush creeping over her cheeks again, and she was immensely grateful Stiles wasn’t a werewolf, simply so he couldn’t hear the thumping of her heart in her chest, erratic and much too fast. Externally, though, she just smiled smally, trying to ignore the swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

The silence of the night settled around them, comfortable and easy, and Lydia drifted off to sleep, nose still inches from Stiles’s. When she woke a few hours later, dawn just beginning to shine through the slats in her blinds, Stiles’s body was pressed against hers, their legs tangled together and his arm resting over her torso, keeping her close. Her heart sped up as he subconsciously nosed at her hair, his head resting against hers. Lydia snuggled back into him, content to just stay in this moment, revel in the feel of being wrapped up in _Stiles._

It took her a moment to realize what was laying on the mattress next to her.

The sweatshirt was there, red fabric peeking out from underneath the blankets, and Lydia realized it must have slipped off in her sleep, as she had unzipped it earlier. She didn’t feel different, though— the lingering grief of seeing Allison’s photos was gone, the familiar comfort the article of clothing generally brought her was unnecessary. Instead, she leaned back into Stiles, his scent washing over her, and when his arms tightened around her, drawing her closer, Lydia felt more at ease than she ever had.

She didn’t really need the sweatshirt, she realized— Stiles’s arms worked just as well.


End file.
